


All You Have Is Your Fire

by Sky_Stars_See



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: I wrote this for a writing contest and I was like what the hell I'll post it here, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 17:38:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_Stars_See/pseuds/Sky_Stars_See
Summary: "All you have is your fireAnd the place you need to reachDon't you ever tame your demonsBut always keep 'em on a leash"— "Arsonist's Lullaby" by Hozier





	All You Have Is Your Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted someone of my own in SO long because I'm no longer an active member of the Inuyasha fandom (just writing that word feels weird haha) and don't feel confident enough to write for the other fandoms I'm in. This piece itself is not attached to any fandoms so I doubt it'll be read, but I figured what the hell, you know? I wrote this for a halloween writing contest at my school and then I needed to submit a piece for one of my writing classes so I spruced it up and that's where I am with it now. Obviously, this is inspired by Hozier's "Arsonist's Lullaby". Go check it out. It's a gorgeous song. Anyway, enjoy!

For years, he had listened to the legends of the land that lay here before him. Sailors’ songs of women long dead, screaming and crying in the dead of night. Old wives tales of men whose bones bent and cracked into the beasts that lurk among the quiet chirp of crickets and buzz of insects. The frantic prattle of deadbeat teenagers stumbling out of the wood smelling of booze and slurring stories of demons with eyes glowing red.

They know nothing of demons. True demons, they live in your lungs and suffocate you from deep down inside your body. They snarl and gnash their teeth in the back of your throat with their fangs. They sink their claws into the flesh of your tongue in a futile effort to escape. Always futile. They are meant to be leashed, afterall. Always long enough to make it to the mouth, but not so long that they could persuade him to speak.

All these myths only lessened the reality of what was about to happen. They will say that the dragons in the attic of this house set the blaze. They will say a portal of hell finally engulfed the basement and the things that sprung forth exhaled evil so hot and malignant that God struck them down with a single bolt of lightning to the roof. 

It will all end in flames no matter the tale that treacherous town tells.

He dreamed of this moment since he was a child. When he stared into open flames and so entranced was he that his eyes dried and he nearly burnt off the tips of his stubby eight-year-old fingers reaching for it’s embrace. It whispered to him like a siren song and lingered in his ears like the ring of a church bell.

Now, the whispers have grown to sings and screams of a lust for hot flames. For the searing burn of its love.

This place could have been so much nicer than what he was about to do here. The house was Victorian though this could only be assumed based on the architecture. It had been at the edge of the forest — at the edge of town, really — before anyone else came to live here. It was here before the town and could’ve remained until long after the sheer memories of it blew away with the wind. It was deeply haunting, truly. 

The forest sits dead silent save for the click of a lighter opening and closing. The birds quiet their chirps. The bugs cease their humming. The wind stills and the air grows thick with apprehension. Even the trees suppress their whispering. The eyes of the forest pause to watch him.

The crunching of dead leaves and twigs taint the toxic silence the way only dead things can. He approaches the house, pushing the door open just hard enough for the hinges to squeal. The floorboards creak under the slightest of weight and, thus, groan when he gingerly steps through the threshold. 

Bare bones surround him. No furniture or trimmings. Hundreds of pine needles line the floor like kindling. The air reeks of must and mold. 

He can hear them all. All the voices. Those of the house — or maybe those of his own mind, it didn’t matter. They were nonetheless hushed screams rattling the bones of his skull in their demand to be heard.

The metal of the lighter hits the floor and the pine needles catch immediately. The heat licks at his feet and the flames moan for him. The cracking and popping of wood slowly burning makes his heart beat faster. An arsonist’s lullaby, you could say. 

And just standing while the song plays isn’t enough. None of it is enough. He lies down on the floor allowing the fire to kiss away his fingerprints. The smoke chokes him and what else is there to do but sigh in relief and breathe deeper. What else but to charge the air with the fragrant scent of smoldering flesh and burnt hair. 

The voices would die with him.


End file.
